


I don't really know where the world is (but I miss it now)

by winterysomnium



Category: DCU - Comicverse
Genre: AU, Bartender AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-23
Updated: 2012-09-23
Packaged: 2017-11-14 21:21:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/519635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterysomnium/pseuds/winterysomnium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The bridge isn’t far enough. The stream isn’t strong enough. The old streets aren’t dirty enough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I don't really know where the world is (but I miss it now)

**Author's Note:**

> This is for and inspired by the amazing thestreetsatnight. It’s inspired by the picture that made me fall in love with her art: http://thestreetsatnight.tumblr.com/post/26145552628/jason-is-a-bartender-and-tim-is-running-away-or. Title is a lyric from the song “Echo” by Jason Walker.

The bridge crosses the river and the river flows through old streets, the streets that lead to ditches people throw people in, throw burning cigarettes and empty paper, throw away the heavy part of their personalities; drown honesty and choke kindness, leave naivety behind, leave her twirling in her soft summer dress, leave her there to get picked up, leave her again and for good.

Tim walks across that bridge and stares into the water, stares at the smoggy smoke it reflects, so steady in her running she glistens with promises of stars, glows after the lamps.

Rushes and shows every expression he hides, every expression he finds strange, finds foreign and ugly on himself; exposes them on his watery face.

The bridge isn’t far enough.

The stream isn’t strong enough.

The old streets aren’t dirty enough. Aren’t crowded here, aren’t laced with moody households, aren’t the distraction Tim’s mind could be fascinated by.

Aren’t what it takes to _engulf_ his mind, what it takes to take away the calculations of things he could listen to, could see, could do.

Can’t take away the hundred ways of getting lost he has thought up, has picked up from the rest of his life and dissected, has shown himself how they could work.

If his parents were sitting on their seats during lunch, he wouldn’t.

If his parents hadn’t left _today_ , he wouldn’t.

If his parents were _anywhere_ but in Gotham, he wouldn’t.

(They weren’t and had and weren’t.)

This is where Tim – where Tim does something stupid.

(Stupid things lead to disasters. Getting drunk leads to stupid things. Gotham leads to nowhere.)

Tim wants to call them. Wants to call his parents.

He wouldn’t greet them. 

He would say: “I’m nowhere; I’m not drunk, and I’m being smart. I’m next to the river you told me not to cross when I was a kid. Not to come closer. Don’t touch the shore, Tim! Well, I’m on its other side now. I’m on Gotham’s side. I’m…I’m not on _your_ side anymore.”

And he would hang up and hang his head and hang on.

And they would say: _Stay smart, Tim._

And Tim would think: And leave stupid? 

(Because he already left.) 

He would end the call. And he would worry. He would long for his parents' voices, for his Mother’s champagne lips and his Dad’s bourbon stubble, for their liquid praise. 

And he would go back. 

(How many days could he have if he counted the hours he has spent on this bridge?

How many hours did he sit here, waiting for the river to wash him away?)

_None_.

_Not one second_.

This is his first hour, first minute, first day of –

of giving up.

Just for tonight, he wants to give up.

\---

He walks through the patches of stained grass, through concrete alleys, through a station with plastic seats.

Stands before a shop window, sees nothing but the buttons of his jacket, nothing but the back of the street.

Catches one of the night buses and the suburbs leave him, fall behind his shoulders.

(Gotham leads to Gotham. Getting drunk leads to a bar. A bar leads to –)

Jason.

Jason that tingles on his lips. Jason that had stuck his hands into Tim’s pockets. Jason whose smile scratches at the inside of Tim’s chest.

(Jason he has yet to meet.)

\---

It could be the oldest bar in Old Gotham. The smallest, the dirtiest, the most forgotten.

It could be famous and it could be prettier on nights like these, when the rain refuses to drip down and the clouds refuse to hold hands, when the sky shines with every satellite, with every airship between the skyscrapers.

Tim’s drawn to the curves of the door, to the metallic sign, to the flicker it doesn’t have. Drawn to the shy quiet, to the vacant tiles of the street’s sidewalk.

(There’s a train ticket in the ditch and it’s soaked through, soaked with dust and grit and old water; soaked to blurry yellows and greens. 

Every single thing about this city is. Every single thing about this city is old.)

The door’s handle feels warm, feels a bit clammy and Tim’s uncomfortable with this thought, repulsed with this implication, this sign of someone grasping it for so long it chased away the cold.

He stops and weighs his options, the yes and the no between the width of his back. 

(Well, he’s here already, isn't he?)

He steps in and the room is colder, lighter than he imagined. The air is fresher, wetter and less thick than Tim has seen on pictures, the music a loudness that’s hard to doze to, that’s hard to pinpoint smaller sounds in, the room mouthing along to the melody. 

It’s completely deserted.

Deserted and tidy; the bartender’s back stands out in dimmed reds.

(In reds that double in the mirrors behind bottles, in the mirrors that tell what they see, that twist what they can’t.)

The bartender's shoulders are broad and his messy hair looks dyed in blackberries, the shapes uncertain and hazy under this light, this length that separates them.

As Tim tentatively sits on a stool by the bar, close to the bartender's right side (close to his person, his space), he notices a tip of a scar, a rough line that crosses the man’s neck, pinkish where his skin is tinted after ivory.

The stool creaks as he shifts his weight and the bartender turns around, fiddling with a cigarette package he throws on the inner counter Tim’s too high and close to see, a tiny snort leaving his mouth when he spots Tim's presence.

“Hey kid, got lost on whatever bratty crusade you’re on?” he greets and asks; eyes Tim’s jacket and scarf, the way he holds himself, the way he’s sitting on the stool all wrong.

Tim shrugs, looks around the dim, graying room. “Not really. Kind of quiet here.”

“Kind of had a gang fight here, ‘bout two hours ago.”

“And you’re still open?” Tim blinks, idly wonders if that dark smear on the bathroom door is hours’ old blood or just an overdue stain; blinks the thought away.

“Would you guess there was a fight if I hadn’t told you?” The bartender asks and leans closer, young as Gotham could never be; young in eyes and lips and clothes, in the necklace that doesn’t clink when it collides with his shirt.

(Older than Tim but only barely, more tangible than any picture – but only barely, more handsome than beautiful but – only barely.)

“No,” Tim answers, truthfully, answers without an ounce of a lie. 

(It’s so thrilling. Being honest. Being the boy he is. The boy he _could_ be, every day.)

“Then that’s your answer,” the bartender points out and sighs when Tim doesn’t move, doesn’t stop to stare at his face, at his soap dry hands. “What do you want to drink, kid?”

Tim hesitates. ( _Stay smart._ chimes in his Mother’s accent, chimes in his Father’s stare.) 

But he left to be _stupid_ , didn't he? Stupid and honest. Stupid and _himself_. (Just for once, this once.) 

So he says: “Beer.” and watches the bartender as he starts to laugh.

“And you of course have the ID to back up your wish, don’t ya?” He asks and his laugh stills to a smirk, to an expression of being in a conversation so many times before he can predict what Tim will say, what he will _do_ , five, ten minutes later.

(Leave the bar humiliated out of his skin?)

“I do,” Tim nods and takes out the wallet he hid in one of the inner pockets of his jacket, fishes for the thin, plastic ID.

It’s a good ID. It’s an _excellent_ one. The best Tim could find.

But the bartender takes a look, throws it back to Tim’s hand on the counter and says: “That’s a damn good fake.” without looking impressed at all.

Tim’s jaw tightens, meets the determination in his eyes. 

“It’s not a fake.”

The bartender rolls his eyes; licks his lips so fast Tim misses the glimpse of his tongue. “Oh, c’mon. I see brats like you every day here. You think a hundred bucks can buy you _experience_?”

The words sting. Sting and swell like “ _You’re our son. Act like it._ ” speeches do, smells like “ _Who do you think you’re trying to be?_ ” accusations tend to.

Something in Tim fades. Fades to a slump, to a _you’re still a liar, aren’t you_? 

“What’s wrong with it? What’s wrong with the ID?” He asks; hands back in his pockets. 

After all, the outside city is cold. 

(Colder than her bars.)

Colder than the melt of the man’s voice, softer where it’s raspy. 

“There’s nothing wrong with it. The ID is perfect. It’s _you_ that’s wrong,” the bartenders says and –

Tim freezes.

(“What is _wrong_ with you today, Timothy?”)

He swallows; watches the fists his hands create inside of his jacket. “What…what do you mean?”

He hears the man shuffle his feet, hears the rows of metal cluck. “A: You’re too young. You look like you’re _fourteen_. B: Your name is _not_ Alvin. The fuck kinda stupid name is that anyway?”

(It’s not like he could _choose_ the name. And he likes Draper. Likes him more than Drake.)

“I’m not _fourteen_ ,” Tim protests, meeker than Draper would. More insecure, without his jaunts or jokes. He did _nothing_ like Draper would. No wonder he’s not believed.

“Whatever, Pretender. You can’t be more than sixteen. Here, your beer.” 

A cold glass bottle thuds against the side of Tim’s head, grazes his ear. It’s a shock that jolts him, tugs him out of his balance and he almost falls, fingers stuck in the cloth of his jacket, unable to grasp anything.

Almost falls but the man catches his arm and jerks Tim back, back towards him. “Whoa. Watch out.”

“Sorry,” Tim mumbles, touches the opened beer bottle, slick and smooth.The palm on his bicep leaves; leaves a phantom pressure Tim feels more than the grip itself; leaves him befuddled. Leaves him confused, out of his wit with the bartender’s smug smirks and the acceptance of his order, with the uncertain predictions of this man's reactions, of the way he acts.

“Why did you – didn’t you just say I can’t be older than sixteen?” Tim asks; curious, careful and clutching the bottle tighter, closer to his palm.

(It’s a symbol now. It’s more than forbidden things. It’s more than getting drunk. 

It’s more than _Tim_.)

“I said you have a damn good ID, too. That’s my alibi. And the cops were here already once tonight, they won’t come back. So drink up, squirt,” the bartender prods and Tim – 

Tim does.

Raises the bottle to his mouth as the man raises a cigarette, wetting its side with his tongue before he sticks it between his lips, before he lights the tip and inhales.

Tim feels the top of the bottle; a round shape, a foreign feeling and he loosens the lock on his jaw, loosens his lips and teeth and the liquid hits his throat, bitter and sour.

“How is it?” The bartender asks, breathing out smoke down to their sides, sucking in more. He toys with the hem of his sleeve, rolled up above his forearms, the cigarette dangling from his lips. 

Tim grimaces, says: “Terrible.” and gulps down more. It’s even worse than the first taste, a burn that’s heavy in his stomach, light on the back of his mouth.

The bartender smirks. “Newbie. Don’t chug it down too fast, you’ll get sick.”

Tim stops mid-gulp and sets the bottle down, swallows. He wishes the taste would go away. That he could breathe it out, too. Could drink it down.

(He nearly reaches for the bottle again. How irrational, to battle bad tastes with the source. Is he finally getting dumb?)

He licks his lips. “How does a cigarette taste?” he asks, licks them again.

The bartender looks amused; one corner of his mouth curled upwards, his eyes warmer than the glow of the lights. He gestures with his finger for Tim to come closer and he himself leans over the counter, Tim clumsily following.

They’re only half a cigarette apart and Tim thinks: I’m going to get kissed.

His eyelashes flutter too, waiting to close and waiting to stay open, his chin tilts. The bartender takes out the cigarette from his lips – 

and sticks it between Tim’s. 

He holds it close, holds it still and secure with three fingers, tells Tim to: “Suck.” and Tim breathes in, inhales the ashes and thick smoke.

He chokes and the smoke leaves in ungraceful fits of coughs, in white gusts of air.

The bartender laughs, steals the cigarette back. 

“ _Now_ I think I’m going to be sick.” Tim gasps out, his stomach lurching.

The bartender sighs and fills a glass full of tap water and hands it to Tim, jerking his thumb in the direction of the bathroom.

“If you’re really going to be sick, don’t you fucking dare to puke on the floor.”

“I would clean it up,” Tim defends, defends what’s left of his manners and good boys’ acts, defends _himself_ before the bartender’s eyes that shift from green to blue, from shallow to deep.

“Sure you would.”

“I _would_!” Tim glares. Wants to yell: “For once, I’m really not lying!” For once, I’m –

(– honest?)

The man seems to measure Tim; measure Tim’s anger and his stubborn words, his unconscious pout. Seems to search in the pale of Tim's skin that forces you to check his hair, to look up into the foggy blue of his eyes.

“What’s your real name?” He asks after a few minutes, after Tim looks less sick and the water is down to its half.

(No point in lying. He’s trying to be honest, right?)

“It's Tim. What's yours?” Tim says, wipes his mouth on his sleeve. The taste of beer is dulled now, muted by the ashen feel of burned paper, by the fresh tastelessness of tap water.

“Jason.” 

Tim extends his hand. “Nice to meet you, Jason.”

Jason raises his eyebrow, skeptical and maybe amused again, maybe laughing at the boy who got taken down by a drag of a cigarette, gotten sick from two mouthfuls of beer.

But he shakes his hand anyway.

Tim sits there for another three hours. Jason drinks his beer for him and Tim asks for more water. They chat about lighthearted things and about weather, about the murder that happened two days ago.

Talk about girlfriends they don’t have, about Jason’s job and about Tim’s school.

Jason smokes three more cigarettes.

\---

Tim yawns into his palm, his shoulders stiff. 

“I should go,” he says, slides down the stool and pays for his drink.

He turns around after they say bye, after Jason smiles and Tim blushes and then – then he hesitates. 

( _Do stupid things._ )

He turns back.

(And Jason's still there, still looking at Tim, still as handsome as he was a beer and four cigarettes ago.) 

“For a moment, I thought you were going to kiss me,” he says, confesses to Jason’s surprised face, to his surprised laugh.

(To Jason’s laugh that stays on his mouth, stays on the borders of his cheeks. Stays with his eyes.)

“Aren’t you going a tad too fast?” Jason asks, the question softer, quieter than his goodbye.

Tim shrugs, takes a step closer. The stool digs into his hip. “Today could be the only chance. I might never come here again. You might not work here tomorrow. How do I know I’m going to see you again?”

And Jason looks taken aback, looks like a boy someone was suddenly nice to. Looks younger than Tim, just for a second. Then he picks up the receipt Tim left on the counter and grabs Tim’s wrist, drops the scrunched up paper into Tim’s palm.

“Like this,” he says and pushes Tim, pushes his shoulder with the heel of his palm. “Shoo, go now.” 

Jason gestures with both of his hands and Tim leaves, doesn’t stop walking, doesn’t halt until he’s back at the bus station.

He looks down into his fist and realizes – realizes that Jason might have been embarrassed.

That Jason might have liked being with Tim, too.

Because Jason – 

Jason left a phone number in Tim’s palm.


End file.
